


Not Just Monsters

by thefrogg



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Gen, Howard Stark Is a Dick, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-05 23:04:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefrogg/pseuds/thefrogg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two Avengers hide under a bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Just Monsters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [old_chatterhand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/old_chatterhand/gifts).



It's disconcerting to have a probably-somewhere-around-eight-year-old Tony Stark running around Avengers Tower. In more ways than the obvious.

For all the claims that the _adult_ Tony Stark has the emotional maturity of a small child, having a de-aged version of him makes it pointedly clear how not true that is.

They'd known his childhood was bad, was--

~~~

Three days of trying to reverse it, SHIELD R&D, and Bruce, and the Four, and even a call up to Westchester, and Tony is growing more ghost-like, not less.

It's enough to make Bruce physically ill. Make Steve leave the room as soon as Tony's vanished - again - from a flinch at a hand raised to scratch at an ear or comb at wayward hair, to hide tears, batter relentlessly at the supposedly indestructible punching bags. Make Clint and Natasha patrol the floor Tony's claimed as his own, since the one adult Tony lives on is strange to him.

Make Thor quiet his booming voice to something resembling distant thunder, call down a sudden storm just to prove he _is_ the Norse god.

Earning the only smile they've seen, small though it is, is just a bonus.

It still doesn't stop Tony's question of when he's going to be sent back to boarding school.

~~~

Clint's making his way through the vents to Tony's new bedroom when the nightmare hits; he can hear the whimpers, the begging, and doesn't hesitate to open the panel and drop down once he's at the right one.

It's too late, the bed's empty by the time Clint's there, and no sign of the kid.

Not even sniffles.

_Jesus._ Clint winces, knowing how Tony had learned that, _why._ "Tony?"

Nothing.

"Tony, it's me, Clint, Hawkeye, it's okay." 

_But it isn't,_ that insidious little voice whispers.

_'You shut up,'_ Clint thinks back at it, getting a derisive little snicker in answer. "Tony, I promise, I _promise_ you're safe."

The ensuite bathroom is shut, as is the walk-in, and a cursory glance around the mostly shadowed room leaves only one possible hiding place.

"I take it you're not coming out then, huh." Clint turns around and flops backwards on the bed. "That's okay. You can stay under there if you want, it's a good bed to hide under." He gives a little chuff of laughter, trying to keep the bitterness out of it. "I'll just...I'll just sit guard for a while, if you don't mind." He doesn't expect an answer.

There isn't one.

That's okay, though. Clint just pulls out his Starkphone and starts a new game of Angry Birds on mute.

Three levels and twenty-ish minutes later, Clint puts the game on pause and lets himself slide off the bed to his knees. All that's visible under the bed is the mostly suppressed glow from Tony's reactor, too large in that narrow chest. "You okay under there?"

"I." Tony doesn't say anything more, but it's enough to tell Clint he's calmed down some. The carpet's too soft to scrape Tony's cheek as he turns his head, and his eyes gleam a little, dull with fear and discomfort.

"Hey, it's okay, I'm not gonna drag you outta there. Actually--" _and oh, isn't_ this _either the best idea he's ever had, or the worst,_ "this is an awesome bed to hide under, I think I'll join you if that's okay." Clint suits actions to words, flattening himself against the floor and ducking under the edge of bedframe.

"Sir?"

Clint stops cold at the alarm in Tony's voice, at the little wordless sounds of fear and the awkward bumps of knee and elbow against the far wall. "I'm not coming in there unless you say it's okay. Not gonna drag you out, not gonna hurt you. But it's a great hiding place, and I figure you could use some company and I could use the practice."

Tony doesn't answer right away; Clint can hear the squirming, see it in the shift of blue light and black shadow, and he knows what Tony's doing, feels his heart sink into his stomach.

"O-okay, I guess."

"You sure?" Because Clint wasn't going in--

"Yeah, yeah, okay."

Clint nods to himself and flattens himself against the floor, sliding carefully under the heavy bedframe. It's a lot tighter fit for him than it is for Tony, he suspects, but no worse than the vents, and he stops far enough away from the kid that Tony would have to cooperate to be in reach.

"Cozy." It is, somehow, normal on-watch tension sinking into the floor since he knows, he _knows_ it's safe here, safe in Avengers Tower with JARVIS, and Natasha covering their unofficial rounds for him. He's almost blind here, even with his extraordinary eyesight, all dark-against-dark; he can barely make out the edge of the bedframe a few inches past his shoulder. "What?"

Tony makes another sound, half fear, half warning. "He. He can reach--you can come closer--"

"Howard?" Clint asks, carefully keeping his voice light. They've been so careful, so very careful to screen everything Tony gets to, nothing about Tony Stark being Iron Man, nothing about Howard and Maria, nothing about Obadiah Stane and Iron Monger, or Afghanistan, or so many other things, and --

Now, Clint thinks maybe it's a mistake. Maybe --

"Kid, you remember those videos we showed you?"

There's a gulp, and another heavy swallow. "You, you mean, the Avengers, you and, and Captain America, and Black--"

"Yeah. You're living with a bunch of superheroes, Tony, anyone who wants to hurt you is going to have to go through us first."

Clint lies in the silent dark for a little bit, listening to his own heart beat, to Tony breathe and shift a little, and a little more. Faint blue-white light washes over him, lightening the shadows each time Tony squirms.

Clint's not expecting the graze of fingers over his wrist, but he's concentrating enough not to startle, not to react as he hears a tiny little gasping sob.

"You--you said it's a good bed to hide under."

It's hard to make out the words, but Clint can hear the curiosity loud and clear under the accusation. "My old man was a vicious drunk, kid, he'd come after me with a belt, or sometimes a beer bottle. All I could do was try and stay out of reach." 

There's a hard swallow, and maybe a sniffle that follows from somewhere off to his right. "But. But you're a superhero." It's a plaintive whisper, a patent disbelief.

Clint can't help a small sardonic chuckle. "Was a kid just like you - well, okay, I was dirt poor, but still. Just a kid." He breathes through his nose, surprised at the lack of a rush of painful memories.

Tony doesn't say a word.

"Superheroes have a _reason."_ At least, the Avengers do, every single one, but Clint can't talk about any aside from his own.

"A reason? To...what?"

Clint shrugs as best he can, hearing the rasp of cloth on carpet. "To prove my old man wrong. To protect those who can't. To show there are good guys willing to stand up to bad guys regardless of the consequences. To try and make the world a better place." He tries for nonchalant, for matter-of-fact, but fails; what he winds up with is somewhere between solemn and awestruck.

Another swallow, more squirming, more cloth-on-carpet, and suddenly Tony presses up against his side from shoulder to thigh.

"Hey kid," Clint says softly as a small hand wraps around his own; he squeezes gently in acknowledgement.

"D'you--D'you think I could be a superhero someday?"

Clint has to shut his eyes, feeling the muscles in his neck go lax, his stomach churn with unease. "Yes." It's all he can think to say, all that keeps the _"You are one"_ trapped behind clenched teeth.

The expected _Really?_ doesn't come, no sought after reassurance, and Clint's heart aches at it, at knowing this child-Tony trusts so easily in heroes, wants to be one badly enough--

"You can't protect me forever, you know." The words are calm, forgiveness in advance for something Clint's not going to let happen, wouldn't even if it were possible. "He's my _dad."_

Clint doesn't know what to say to that -- no, actually, he knows _exactly_ what he wants to say to that, he just doesn't want to be saying it while trapped under the bed. "Long enough, kid, I can protect you long enough."

Tony makes a disgruntled sound; Clint can practically hear the eye-roll. "Superhero, huh. Okay, everybody out. Heroes don't hide under the bed."

"Who says? Your dad? I hate to say this, but he's no expert on what a superhero would do. And hiding under the bed is a tried and true tradition."

Tony snorts out a laugh and shoves weakly at him.

"Okay, okay, you're the one who started it." Clint wiggles his way out from under the bed; it's far from the tightest space he's spent time in, but it's not conducive to this kind of talk, and, well.

"You can't protect me forever." This time it's sheer willful stubbornness.

"Actually." Clint sighs and flops back on the bed, waving a hand beckoningly until Tony joins him, cool blue light from the arc reactor casting them both in shadow. Tony's thigh presses lightly against Clint's, and Clint wraps one arm around Tony's shoulder as he curls up trustingly, almost too trustingly, against his shoulder.

"Actually what?"

Clint hesitates.

"Cliiiint--"

And there's the annoying-- Clint shakes his head. "You know there are things we can't -- haven't been able to tell you. Right?"

"Are you kidding me? Seriously? I'm a walking talking _flood lamp_ and I don't remember anything about how it got there and you're telling me there's things you haven't told me." Tony's angry, angry and disappointed and offended, and Clint can't blame him, just wraps him up in strong arms until he stops trying to push him away, stops struggling with a broken sob of frustration.

"That one I'm going to skip, because you do not need those memories right now. Just--trust me, you need that, okay?" It's dark now, the light from Tony's reactor crushed between their chests, but Clint doesn't need light to rub softly at the back of Tony's neck, scratch gently at his scalp soothingly. "But I promise you, I _promise_ you Howard will never lay a hand on you ever again."

Tony goes deathly still, then just collapses; Clint feels the phantoms of cut strings fall against his skin. "He's dead, isn't he. Isn't he?"

"Yeah, kid, he is."

Quiet spins out between them, Tony just lying there; he scrubs his cheek against Clint's shoulder a little. He's quiet so long that his _"Mom? Obadiah?"_ almost startles Clint.

"Your parents died in a car accident. Obadiah--" and that name sticks in Clint's throat; he hadn't been there, but Phil had, and that Stane had come so close-- "--was killed by a madman in a robotic suit."

That Obadiah had _been_ the madman in a robotic suit did not bear mentioning.

"Then. Then they need me at the company, I'm the only one--" Words spill from Tony's mouth, anxious and frantic and gaining speed as he struggles in Clint's grip.

"Woah, woah, kid, hang on. It's okay, just. Just listen, okay?"

"I."

"Tony."

Tony sniffles and hunches his shoulders. "Am I--Am I supposed to feel bad about dad?"

God, Tony's going to break his heart. Damnit. "Kid, you're supposed to feel how you feel, there's no right or wrong way about it."

There's another long silence as Tony mulls that over; Clint can all but hear the gears whirring at lightning speed. Then, there's a whisper against his shoulder, as if confiding a secret, a small "I miss Obie."

"He was a good man," Clint forces himself to say, because it had been true once upon a time. Good enough to earn child-Tony's trust, good enough to be a father figure when Tony had needed one.

“I liked him.”

Clint just holds Tony through the quiet sniffles, the tiny hiccuping sobs that leave his t-shirt damp. It’s obvious Tony’s not going to let him leave when he yawns, curling his fingers in the bottom of Clint’s t-shirt and cuddling even closer - or trying to, anyways. “Hey, you.”

“Mmm?” Nightmares and grief and living in the shadows of terror are enough to exhaust anyone, much less an eight-year-old boy. “‘m not crying.”

“Kid, cry all you want, I do it all the time,” Clint says before Tony can wake himself up enough to panic again. “Nobody’s going to think less of you. That’s not what I was going to ask, anyways.”

“Oh.”

“You remember those superheroes you’re living with?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re safe here with us, we won’t let anything happen to you. Think you could try not to run away? We aren’t going to hurt you.”

Tony’s breathing changes, not to fear or upset, but enough to tell Clint that he’s actually thinking about the question, and doesn’t that just--

“I can try?”

It’s as much an admission - a verbal admission - as Tony’s likely to give him that Howard had beaten him, as if he hadn’t already done so in oh so very many painfully obvious ways.

“That’s all I ask, kid. That’s all I ask.” Clint tucks his chin over the crown of Tony’s head, cups a hand over the joint of a shoulder, and feels the tension Tony’s picked up leech out again.

That’s all anyone can ask.

And if tomorrow Tony’s become Clint’s shadow, well, that’s all right with Clint.


End file.
